Charming the Scholar (The Seven Curses of London Book 2)

by Williams, Lana

  Normally, Oliver had Tubbs fetch the books for him. The footman knew enough to make an educated guess as to whether Oliver would be interested or not. But today, Oliver decided to have a look at the man’s shop himself. Tubbs might miss a book that already sat in Mr. Porter’s establishment. Oliver still carried a faint hope he could locate one of Albert Magnus’s books and purchase it for himself. That would be a better arrangement than the prospect of visiting Lord Burnham on a regular basis.

  With a shake of his head, he admitted it wasn’t speaking with the older lord that disturbed him, but the man’s lovely and charming daughter.

  Julia had stolen into his dreams last night, moving alongside him in his bed, under him, over him, until he’d woken throbbing with desire. He feared that in such a state of mind, he’d have no restraint the next time he saw her.

  Time. That was all he needed. Some distance from his last encounter with her. Part of the reason for this outing today was to force himself to think of something else. Sitting at his desk, attempting to divert himself with an ancient vellum manuscript written by Paulus Orosius, a third century author, hadn’t worked. Orosius’s methodology was normally one to be admired, but today it had failed miserably at keeping Julia from Oliver’s thoughts. He could smell her sweet lilac scent, taste her, and feel her when he closed his eyes.

  Yet it was more than that. Far more than her physical attributes appealed to him. There was an unexpected depth to her easily missed if one focused on her general kindness, not to mention her smile.

  He glanced about, realizing that once again the mere thought of her had distracted him from his purpose.

  Ridiculous.

  Or was it? Thinking of her had delivered him to his destination with ease. He wasn’t certain what to make of that.

  He strode toward the door of the import-export store, ignoring the jumble of working men and clerks, as well as wives who held baskets over their arms for their purchases.

  The hanging signpost above the shop had faded but the lettering was still legible, and the images of crates and barrels with a ship in the background suggested the store would contain goods from far-off shores. Of that, Oliver had no doubt. It was whether those goods had been procured legally that he questioned. The display in the window held an odd variety of random items, including an intricately carved ivory box, a miniature Egyptian casket, and bolts of bright silk fabric much like those he’d seen in China. Unfortunately, no books were in sight.

  A bell rang as he opened the door and the man who stood behind the counter looked up from a ledger book, a pair of spectacles sitting low on his nose. “May I help you?”

  “Viscount Frost to see the book about which you sent a message.”

  “Oh.” The stout man’s eyes widened in surprise. “I was expecting your man. I’m Mr. Porter.”

  “Thought I’d have a look for myself this time.” Oliver studied him, forming an impression of a confident man focused on business. No doubt running an import-export store was a challenge as one never knew the sort of goods that might be available nor the details of their origin. That required a broad knowledge. But there was a slickness to his demeanor as well that gave Oliver pause.

  “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll retrieve the text. I think you might find it of great interest.”

  Oliver looked around as the man made his way through the crowded shop to the back. There were stacks of furniture, shelves crowded with unusual knick-knacks, even a collection of African artifacts. Several weavings graced the walls. One appeared to be a tapestry of a knight bowed low before an angel with an overly bright halo. She held out her hand as though offering forgiveness and light to the knight.

  Something about the tapestry drew him forward to study it more closely. If only it were that easy. If only he could bow his head and pray, asking forgiveness for his actions.

  He realized almost at once the tapestry was not woven but painted and made in this century, not previous ones. It wasn’t what it should’ve been, much like himself. Fighting his personal demons was what had driven him to stay within the walls of his home during the past two years. They had proven impossible to banish, those demons. But somehow he had to find a way to live with them, keeping them in check, rather than allowing them free rein.

  “Here it is,” Mr. Porter called out, drawing nearer. When he came into view, Oliver saw he carried a rather large leather-bound text, the brown cover faded and water-stained in spots. Just the sort of book that never failed to rouse his interest.

  He had gained his love of books at his grandfather’s knee. During his childhood, he’d spent many hours listening to his stories about this book or that one, about how monks had painstakingly copied manuscripts for days upon end, their embellishments of the books an art form in itself.

  Mr. Porter set the heavy book on the counter with a thud, turning it toward Oliver for his perusal.

  Before opening it, Oliver studied the cover in an attempt to determine its age. The leather was well worn in places, spotted in others. With careful movements, he opened it, nearly sighing in appreciation at the musty smell that escaped from the parchment pages. A sense of peace fell over him as it often did when he handled books. He paused for a moment as he realized it was much like the way he felt in Julia’s presence. With a quick shake of his head, he pushed away the thought to consider later.

  The elaborate writing inside was a challenge to read, but it appeared to be a copy of Yvain, the Knight of the Lion, a twelfth-century Arthurian romance.

  Oliver carefully turned a few pages, noting the good condition. It would be an excellent addition to his collection.

  “What do you think?” Mr. Porter asked. “Is it of interest to you?”

  Oliver took care to hide how interested he was in the book as he knew the man would raise the price. “Perhaps. What price do you have in mind?”

  When the man gave a ridiculous one, Oliver shut the book. “I’ll leave it for another patron.”

  “No need for haste. That price is somewhat negotiable,” Porter anxiously assured him.

  “Where did you acquire the book?”

  “A private collector who wishes to remain anonymous.”

  Though he once again held doubt Porter spoke the truth, there was no way to prove it. After another round of offers and counter-offers, they settled on the cost. While Mr. Porter wrapped the book in brown paper to protect it, Oliver perused the rest of the shop but didn’t find any other books he wanted.

  “Were you looking for something else I could help you with?”

  “Where do you acquire the majority of your goods?” Oliver asked. Hawke had spoken in detail of the contents of one of Smithby’s warehouses in which he’d been. The goods offered for sale in this shop weren’t so very different from what Hawke had described.

  “From a variety of sources,” Porter responded with a frown. “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you ever purchase wares from Jasper Smithby?” The inquiry was a long shot but worth asking.

  “Never heard of him.” He smoothed his expression as though trying to act nonchalant.

  Oliver was almost certain the man was lying, yet there was nothing he could do about it. His response might only mean he’d heard of Smithby, not necessarily that he bought items from him.

  Though the authorities had implemented new methods to prevent the entry of illegal goods into the city, it still occurred on a regular basis. They couldn’t monitor each and every crate that was removed from a ship. Ringleaders like Smithby made it all the more difficult as he had men in his employ at all levels, from dock workers to shipmates and those in between, each on the take and eager to pocket more money for themselves.

  “I know of someone who would pay well to learn more about Smithby, should you hear of anything,” Oliver offered after careful consideration. Though this was a risky move as Smithby could very well get wind of it, they had to shake up the man somehow. This seemed like a good place to start.

  “Oh?” A gleam of in
terest caught Porter’s eye. Or was it worry?

  “Quite well,” Oliver confirmed, wondering if the man would say anything helpful.

  “I’ll keep that in mind should I hear anything. Is there anything else that caught your interest, or shall I put only the book on your account?”

  “The book is all.” Oliver retrieved the wrapped text from the counter and headed toward the door, pausing before he opened it to glance once more at the tapestry before holding Porter’s gaze. “Send a message if you have anything of note on Smithby.”

  “Yes, of course,” the man agreed. The way he looked away so quickly had Oliver wondering what he knew.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t a way to keep an eye on the man and his shop. As Hawke had often mentioned, having more men to aid them would be helpful.

  Oliver departed with the book tucked under his arm, muffling an oath as he stepped out onto the crowded walkway. He hoped Tubbs would arrive soon with the carriage but didn’t yet see him. He walked down the street, watching for it, wondering if any similar shops were nearby.

  Someone bumped hard into his back, and Oliver turned to see a scruffy lad with big brown eyes looking up at him.

  “My apologies,” the boy said as he lifted his hand palm up to show he meant no offense. “I lost my balance.”

  “Quite all right,” Oliver muttered. He’d nearly turned back around when a familiar unease filled him. But this time, it wasn’t simply because of the many people around him.

  He wasn’t given to believing in odd powers but he’d met an elderly man in Ethiopia after that terrible battle who told Oliver he had the power of premonition. Oliver had dismissed it but the man had insisted, explaining that many people had such an ability though most suppressed it or chose to ignore it. The old man had claimed Oliver happened to be more attuned to the power and that he should welcome it.

  The sense of knowing had served him well in the past though he never knew exactly how to act on it. Following his instincts, he returned his gaze to the boy.

  The lad gave him a quick grin, his eyes wide with innocence. Far too much innocence for a boy familiar with these rough streets. “Meant no harm, sir.”

  “Of course not,” Oliver agreed then latched onto the boy’s arm with his free hand. “Hand it over.”

  “What?” The perplexed look the lad offered was quite convincing, but Oliver continued to listen to his instincts.

  “The object of mine you took.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” the lad denied as he attempted to tug his arm free of Oliver’s grasp, his expression growing warier by the moment.

  “Either you figure it out, or I’ll find a policeman who will do so.” Oliver glanced about as though searching for one. Chances were slim one would be walking about in this neighborhood, but there was a possibility.

  “No need for a copper, sir.”

  “Excellent. Then hand it back.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Now,” Oliver interrupted the boy’s sputtered denial and shook his arm for good measure.

  “All right, all right. Ye don’t have to get rough.” The boy’s grin returned. “I was only seein’ if ye were payin’ attention.” He reached into his dirty, tattered coat pocket and held out Oliver’s pocket watch. “See? No harm.”

  Oliver returned his watch to his pocket then gestured for more.

  “What?” Those brown eyes went wide once again.

  The lad was convincing, but Oliver shook his head and continued to hold the lad’s gaze.

  “Oh, very well.” He reached in his pocket again and laid several coins into Oliver’s outstretched hand.

  “All of them,” Oliver insisted.

  The boy gave an exaggerated sigh. “Just trying to feed my mum and me.” Now he sounded as though he was nearly in tears.

  “Well done,” Oliver said dryly. “I almost believed you.”

  The boy glared up at him, all traces of sadness gone replaced by a wisdom far beyond his years.

  “What’s your name?” Oliver asked.

  “Samuel.”

  “Your real name.”

  With a glare, the boy reluctantly changed his answer. “Victor.”

  Oliver eyed the lad, deciding he was finally telling the truth. “Are you by chance interested in a position?”

  “What sort?” he asked, his nose scrunched in derision.

  “Honest work that pays fairly.”

  “Sounds like a scam of some sort to me.”

  “I suppose it does,” Oliver said with a smile. The boy had obviously had a rough go of it on the streets. But something about him made Oliver decide to take a risk.

  Odd, but only a week ago he wouldn’t have bothered to venture from his home, yet today he was standing on this busy street, offering a job to a thief. After having read The Seven Curses of London, he couldn’t help but look around a street like this one with new eyes and pay more attention to those walking by.

  Perhaps Victor was one of the professional thieves noted in the second chapter. From what Oliver had read, he knew few who took to a life of thievery at an early age were able to change their fortunes and find honest work. It made him want to assist Victor. Plus it could aid the fight against Smithby.

  “I need someone to keep an eye on that import-export store.” Oliver nodded toward the shop he’d just left.

  “Mr. Porter’s?”

  “Yes, and him as well.”

  “What fer?”

  “Anything unusual. He might be selling illegal wares.”

  The lad raised a brow. “Ye don’t say.” His sarcastic tone biting.

  “We’re looking for specific wares, or rather, the person supplying Porter with them.”

  “Who?”

  “Jasper Smithby.”

  “Haven’t heard of him.”

  “Good. He’s a nasty fellow, so keep your distance. We only seek information. No need to risk your neck to obtain it.”

  “Then how do you expect me to find anything?”

  “Observe and report. You know enough to realize when something isn’t quite right.” Oliver handed him two shillings.

  Victor’s eyes widened in surprise as he reached for the coins. “What makes ye think I won’t just take the money and be gone?”

  “Because you realize there’s more where that came from should you report back with anything interesting.”

  “How do I find ye?”

  Oliver gave him his address. “I look forward to hearing anything you discover.”

  “I still don’t know what I’m watchin’ fer.”

  “Nor do I. But I believe you’ll know it when you see it.”

  Victor nodded but eyed Oliver as though not certain he believed him. “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s all I ask. If nothing of interest happens in three days’ time, come and see me. We’ll decide what the next course of action should be. That is, if you’re interested in continuing the work.”

  “I’m interested.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” Oliver warned. “You can’t watch the shop from prison.”

  Victor grinned up at him. “True enough. I’ll see ye in a few days, guv.”

  “I look forward to it.” Oliver gave a curt nod and looked up to see Tubbs and the carriage nearby. When he glanced back, the lad was gone. He hoped Victor would do as asked. It might prove helpful to hear what the lad had to report.

  ~*~

  Julia entered the dining room for luncheon, surprised to find it empty.

  “Where is my father?” she asked James, the footman.

  “He asked that his luncheon be taken to him in the library, my lady.”

  Well aware he’d gone directly to the library following breakfast, Julia decided to check on him. “I’ll return in a moment.”

  She found her father crouched over his desk with the all too familiar book open as he penned notes on a piece of paper. His meal sat untouched on the corner of his desk.

  “Father, aren’t you going to st
op for luncheon?”

  He glanced up with a vacant expression. “I’ll be along directly. No need to wait for me.”

  Julia frowned with concern as she glanced at the covered plate on his desk. “James brought your meal already. You should at least pause long enough to eat.”

  He raised a finger in the air. “Can’t stop now. I may have found something.”

  “What is it?” Julia stepped around his desk to read over his shoulder.

  “Nothing that would interest you, dear. But Frost should find it fascinating.”

  As she skimmed his notes, she found little that made sense. She didn’t know Latin, so the page of the book he studied was of no help. From what her father had previously explained, he was searching for references to rocks or herbs that contained strange elements or supposedly gave the bearer power.

  Looking over his desk, she realized her father had taken page upon page of notes. Surely he was working far too hard on this task. He seemed to be obsessed with it. Especially if he wasn’t stopping for a meal. He hadn’t gained back any of the weight he’d lost during his previous illness. She’d prefer a smile on his face rather than the intent look he always seemed to wear since he’d started this.

  “Father, you should stop and eat. That way, you can keep up your strength.”

  “Yes, yes, Julia, but not yet. The food will keep until I finish this chapter. Frost is counting on me, you know.”

  He waved her away and looked back at the book, following his finger’s path across the page.

  Julia scowled with displeasure but did as he asked, not certain what other option she had. Should she speak with Oliver and explain this was too much for her father? But that would only put Oliver in the position of taking away the book from her father instead of her. That didn’t seem fair to Oliver. Nor did she care to have a private conversation with him about it. Heaven knew where that would lead.

  She wasn’t certain she could trust herself when she was alone with him. His chivalrous behavior the previous evening still made her heart pound like mad. And when she thought of his kisses...

  When she returned to the dining room, Aunt Matilda was seated, waiting for her.